


What Goes on in Our Minds

by fairbreeze



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, dubious consent due to the type of voyeurism, sexual content involving a minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairbreeze/pseuds/fairbreeze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos does not attempt to do <i>anything</i> interesting with the math.  Carlos is a scientist and not a mathematician.  Carlos does not attempt to do anything interesting at all.  </p><p>Cecil, on the other hand...</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Goes on in Our Minds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EverlivingGhosts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverlivingGhosts/gifts).



> I don't really like writing total AUs. I enjoy reading them, and RPing in them and hearing about people's ideas for them but, for me, as a writer, I like to write in the setting the creators presented, and try to tweak and twist things around in interesting ways in that setting. I delude myself, in this way, into feeling like what I write is an homage, and not gratuitous wish fulfillment, and I don't hold much truck with altering all major story elements for a canon JUST to wrangle in a particular type of kink, particularly if there are both other good canons out there with that kink naturally, or if the kink is one that's generally frowned upon.
> 
> However, there was a conversation on tumblr about a Welcome to Night Vale AU idea that was really pretty adorable and not really kinky at all, and resulted in a super cute little bit of writing, and it got some anon-shaming, and something in me went THIS WILL NOT STAND.
> 
> So I MADE it kinky. Because I am like that.

Carlos is not thinking about one Cecil Palmer, head of the school’s journalism club, first on the scene of every disaster in school, pretty and mysterious and very, _very_ 17 years old, while he’s trying to grade papers.

The school is quiet, everyone has gone home for the day, everyone but him, and he’s sitting in his office, looking at science papers, grading them on the correctness of their science. He is not thinking at all about a young man, a _boy_ who is twice as alive as anyone he’s ever met and seems to have a ridiculous crush on him, who seems to know just how to smile and flush and say things in a voice that belongs in illicitly downloaded videos from the internet, not coming out of a perfectly shaped mouth across an old black, two-person desk that some 10th grader probably dissected a frog on last period. Someone had carved a picture of a sandwich and the word HARLOT into the desk. He knew this because he had been resolutely looking at the picture and not at Cecil when he’d said that he was _very_ into science, these days.

But he’s not thinking about that, really, because he’s grading papers, doing his job. He is doing his job _as a teacher_ and Cecil is his _student_ and Carlos is probably old enough to be his father, if you do some interesting things with the math.

Carlos does not attempt to do _anything_ interesting with the math. Carlos is a scientist and not a mathematician. Carlos does not attempt to do anything interesting at all. He marks another paper, maybe a little more harshly than he should have on that last question and moves on to the next one. He’s trying so hard to not do anything interesting or connected to Cecil at all, that he hears the soft, furtive footfalls long before they make it to his classroom, hears them coming down the hall. He frowns, and then clicks the light off on his desk, the only light on in his office, rising silently up out of his chair.

He knows where just about everything in his tiny office is, even with the lights off, and it’s a simple matter to start creeping, silently, towards the door between it and his classroom. It’s probably just some damn fool kid, come to try to steal the biology department’s skeleton again or something. Maybe some asshole come to pinch some of the supplies from the chemistry closet to make meth or bombs or whatever stupid fucked up thing kids thought they could make out of a chemistry closet these days, when they didn’t even bother to pay attention in class. If he could catch them in the act, though, maybe he could scare them away. 

He’s almost to door to his office when he realizes that, whoever it is, it’s not any of the other science rooms they’re after, but his own. Oh _really_? He’s pretty sure there’s nothing in here that anyone would want to steal, so much so that he’s pretty lax about locking the door most nights. What could anyone possibly want in here? There’s the click of a flashlight and he presses back into the shadows next to the window slit in the door, unseen, but not before he’d gotten a really good look at the selfsame Cecil Palmer he was previously not thinking about.

What in the _hell_ is Cecil doing, sneaking in here late at night. Some kind of story for the paper? Looking for some kind of evidence? But of what? There aren’t any rumors about him that he’s aware of, nothing that would make good reading. He’s almost depressingly boring. What could Cecil be looking for? He dares to peek back up in the window, for just a moment, and sees him standing over the slightly larger desk in the front of the classroom that he usually lectures behind. He’s left his lab coat thrown over the chair behind it, like usual, and Cecil picks it up, pressing his nose into the fabric for a long moment. Cecil is _smelling_ his lab coat. His other hand reaches down and fumbles, blindly, for the flashlight, like he can’t even be bothered to take his face away from it for long enough to look. 

The room plunges back into the realm of sound and shadows.

Carlos has always known that the walls were thin, but he’d never realized how thin until this moment, when he realizes he can hear Cecil’s _breathing_ , too loud in the silence of the room, that he can hear… _oh god_ , that he can hear the sound his belt makes, jangling metal and purring leather as he fumbles with it, one handed, the clatter and fuss of him either sitting in the chair, or pushing the chair out of the way. What does he think he’s _doing_?

No. No. Carlos knows _perfectly_ well what he’s doing, knows so well he can _picture it_. He is _not picturing it_. He is _not_ thinking about Cecil Palmer, _student_ , _his_ student, with his nose buried in his labcoat and his hand on his cock. There is another shuffle. He is only staying quiet because, at this point, he _has_ to. At this point, he has to not move and not say anything and then go home and drink to forget. And that’s how he can hear Cecil opening something in the dark and he pretends he doesn’t know what it is, that he doesn’t know what’s next, that he doesn’t know what’s happening. He pretends he’s never had sex. He thinks about anything but having sex, he thinks about anything but what’s happening not ten feet away on his desk at the front of the room, anything but the wet, unmistakable sound of Cecil stretching himself, little half-choked moans falling from his mouth until finally, he must have gotten used to the sensation, and his voice switches to something needfully quiet, but full throated, resonant, 

“Oh yes, Carlos, right there!” Carlos squeezes his eyes shut and does equations in his head, wonders if he can disassociate entirely from his body, “You feel so good, so _perfect_ , knew you would, everything about you is _perfect_ , nnh…” Carlos was right, even if he hadn’t been thinking about it—he has the _perfect_ voice for porn, just the barest little waver in an otherwise _hungry_ tone. “So good… wanted to do this since I _met_ you, and then I had you for _class_ and I… _ohh_ Carlos, more, _please_ …” Cecil degenerates into whimpers and Carlos thinks of something, _anything_ to avoid calculating out what those words meant, ages and years and when _had_ he first met Cecil, anyway? 

No. No he is not thinking about that. He is thinking about… meadows. He is thinking about barbed wire fences and birds. He is thinking about any random nonsense he can think about and he is keeping his hands at his sides, balled into fists, so he doesn’t do anything with them he’ll regret later. 

He is learning what Cecil Palmer sounds like when he cums.

He’s listening to Cecil’s breathing, listening to it slow, and then the furtive sounds of a flashlight clicking on and then the shaky laugh of someone who cannot _believe_ what they have just done, what they have just gotten away with. Cecil’s voice is rough with the noises he’s been making, from holding them back. Carlos is listening to the crinkly sound of a tissue paper packet opening, backpack zippers being undone, other zippers behind done up. He is not thinking of anything. His hands are still in fists at his sides. He is going to go home and take the coldest shower he can stand and he is never going to think about this again. 

The door to the hall opens, then closes. Carlos waits. He goes through the Fibonacci sequence, decides those numbers clearly require too much thought for someone who is a scientist and not a mathematician, and starts listing out pi, instead, finds that a little easier. He gets lost between the 5th and 6th zero. He starts again. By the time he’s made it to the 7th, he figures enough time has passed and he moves back to his desk, clicks on his light. He gathers his papers calmly, rationally, ignores every impulse currently in his body. He packs his things with great and deliberate care, puts on his jacket, which he is currently quite happy reaches down to his mid-thigh, and prepares to get the _hell_ out of here, like any reasonable adult would have done a long time ago.

He makes the mistake of looking over at the desk at the front of the room, the chair, the labcoat. He makes the mistake of picking it up. He makes the mistake of learning that while it’s as pristinely clean as it was 30 minutes ago, it now smells like Cecil.

He makes it home, but he does not make it to the shower before his resolve breaks. He is thinking about it. He is thinking about fucking Cecil Palmer on a desk in the classroom he teaches him AP Science in. He is thinking about how much better his noises would be, if he was the one causing them, what kind of filthy things he would say in that pretty voice. He is thinking about what Cecil would look like in the labcoat and nothing else, pushing his fingers into himself and writhing for it, what that would have _looked_ like, if he could have seen… 

He cums harder than he can remember since his college days and he vows to himself that he can never, never think about this again.

He leaves his labcoat every night, now, and goes home early. Some mornings, it smells like Cecil, some mornings it doesn’t. He tries not to think about it. Cecil gets a little Happy Birthday bear and a furtive kiss from that boy scout friend of his, when they think no one is watching. Carlos tries not to think too hard about that, either.


End file.
